They had the same conversation every summer, and as usual, Rachel capitulated. “In that case...I’ll look forward to it.”
“In the meantime, sweet dreams. Bandit, are you coming?”
The dog rose from his sitting position and trotted after his owner.
As Eleanor disappeared down the hall, Rachel drummed her fingers against the countertop. It wasn’t even ten yet. Too early for bed and too dark to go for a walk on the beach. TV held no appeal, and if she dived back into the taut thriller she’d taken to the beach earlier she’d stay up far too late reading just one more page.
Maybe she’d end the day with a soothing cup of herbal tea.
Choosing a bag from her aunt’s large selection, she eyed the folder on the table. It was a shame about the church project—though she’d always thought it too ambitious for the aging congregation. Still, she couldn’t fault their generous spirit. They were living the values Reverend Carlson preached from the pulpit every Sunday and doing God’s work.
So why had He allowed obstacle after obstacle to disrupt their efforts to serve Him?
She tossed the bag in a mug, answers about the Almighty eluding her, as usual.
But she wasn’t going to let herself grow bitter. She would cling to the belief that He had plans for her welfare, not her woe. Plans to give her a future full of hope. Holding fast to that verse from Jeremiah was what had gotten her through the losses. That, and the love and support Aunt El had offered once her parents and brother had returned to their far-flung homes.
After filling the mug with water, she set it in the microwave, strolled back to the table, and leaned over to examine the contents of the open file. Twelve sets of stapled documents were on top, each containing two or three pages. The six at the back were held together with a binder clip. Those must be the people who’d already lost their chance to visit Jekyll, based on the arrival dates noted at the top of the cover sheets.
Rachel refocused on the set at the top of the pile. It was background information on the family slated to participate in the program beginning on July 14—in less than five weeks.
Joseph and Sarah Mitchell, ages thirty-seven and thirty-four, and their four children—Aaron, nine; Nicole, seven; Angela, four; Peter, six months. Joseph was an IT technician who’d been out of work for eight months...a victim of overseas outsourcing, according to the write-up from his minister. Hard-worker, regular churchgoer, loving father, devoted husband—the accolades were abundant. He was taking odd jobs to make ends meet, but they were struggling. On top of all that, they’d lost their oldest son in a bicycle accident a year ago. The stress had extracted a toll on everyone, and the family was in desperate need of a brief respite.
The microwave beeped, and Rachel wandered back to retrieve her tea.
If every story in the file was that heartrending, it was no wonder the sparkle in her aunt’s eyes had flagged at the thought of having to deliver more bad news to families who’d already borne more than their share of difficulty.
Dipping the bag in the hot water, Rachel returned to the table. A quick scan of the remaining sets of pages confirmed her suspicion. Every family in the file could benefit from a relaxing, carefree week on Jekyll Island.
As she sipped her tea, the warmth in the ceramic mug seeped into her fingers—just as the stories of these deserving families had seeped into her heart.
Was there anything she could do to keep more of them from being disappointed? She wasn’t a carpenter or an electrician or a plumber, but she could wield a mean paintbrush, knew how to rip up carpeting and wasn’t afraid of heavy-duty cleaning.
Would that kind of contribution make a difference?
Not likely.
But first thing tomorrow, before Aunt El left for the gallery, she’d offer anyway.
And even if her efforts wouldn’t be enough to prevent more cancellations, she’d still pitch in. Because helping with a worthwhile project this summer suddenly held a whole lot more appeal than spending her free time lying on the beach.
* * *
“You’re up early.”
As Gram entered the kitchen, Fletch finished typing the email, hit the send button and angled his wrist. Seven already? Somehow he’d lost track of the time. “I have a client in Europe who burns the midnight oil. I’ve been back and forth with him since four-thirty.”
Gram’s eyes widened. “Mercy! Do you always keep such odd hours?”
Odd hours? After military life, when he’d often gone two full days with no shut-eye while dodging bullets and freezing on a harsh mountainside, getting up at four-thirty didn’t qualify as odd. “Not always. I made coffee, if you want some.” He gestured toward the half-empty pot on the counter.
“I see you’ve already put quite a dent in it.” She moved across the room. “I heard you typing in your room after I got home last night, too. What time did you get to bed?”
“Around eleven-thirty.”
“Five hours of sleep isn’t enough.”
“It is for me.” Especially when nightmares plagued his slumber. “So how did your meeting go?”
She filled a mug and joined him at the table, frowning. “I think we’re hosed.”
His lips twitched. Gram using urban slang—another first. What other surprises would this trip hold?
He covered his amused reaction by taking a sip of coffee, then grimaced at the tepid brew. As he rose for a warm-up, he spoke over his shoulder. “How much would it take to get things up and running?”
When Gram didn’t reply at once, he topped off his mug and turned to find her regarding him with an expression he couldn’t read. “What?”
“Are you thinking of making a contribution?”
“Maybe—if it will wipe that frown off your face.”
Instead of disappearing, the indentations on her forehead deepened. “I wasn’t angling for your money.”
“I know, but I have some excess cash and it sounds like a worthy cause.”
A few beats of silence ticked by as Gram stirred some cream into her coffee. He could almost hear the gears grinding in her brain. “That’s a very generous offer. But you should be putting your extra money into a house fund of your own for when you have a family.”
That wasn’t the response he’d expected.
He tightened his grip on his mug. “That could be a long way off. The need you have is more immediate.”
She tapped a finger on the polished oak tabletop. “I’ll tell you what. Let me call Eleanor at a more decent hour and see what she thinks. In the meantime, I’ll give you some information on the families who are scheduled to come. If you’re thinking about investing in the project, you ought to have some idea of who’s going to benefit.” She started to rise.
“That’s not necessary. If you and your church think this is worth doing, I’ll take your word for it.”
She kept moving. “I’d feel better if you gave the file a quick read. Writing a check for charity is all well and good, but it means more if you know who you’re helping.”
Before Fletch could reiterate his protest, Gram had already disappeared down the hall.
Settling back in his chair, he opened the new email that had come in during their brief conversation. The project in Newark was heating up. They were going to want him on-site sooner rather